Snippets
by MinnesotaNice
Summary: A collection of shorts - all featuring the lovely Elsie Hughes - based on a one word or short phrasal prompts. Mr. Carson will pay lots of visits as well. Many genres will be included. Rating is subject to change as well.
1. Favorite

Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously! All recognizable characters belong to the brilliant Julian Fellows. This will serve as the disclaimer for each snippet to come after this one.

A/N: Some liberties are taken with this one, so I guess that makes it AU. Spoilers apply; I know they exist, just not the actual details of them, not having seen the entirety of series three. Forgive me if they are wrong.

* * *

**Favorite**

_Birth_

Somehow, the housekeeper knows this child will be different. Cannot quite explain it. The announcement of the impending birth has excited everyone in the house. Whispers and well wishes are uttered, prayers for a son sent heavenward. Though somewhat unorthodox, she is present for this little one's arrival. She had been with the lady of the house when she experienced her first labor pains, and had unwittingly remained for the duration.

She is smitten the moment the babe is placed in her arms to present to the exhausted mother. She almost does not want to relinquish her hold. She feels this impossibly small body against hers, experiences a strong pang of longing for something she cannot, will not ever have.

* * *

_Four_

She is just tying off the end of her plait, readying for bed when she hears her bedroom door creak open. She turns around, sees the little girl. She is wide-eyed with one hand on the door handle, the other holding _Rosie_ tightly, her small thumb in between her lips. The housekeeper stares in amazement, wonders how the child found the servants' quarters, how she found –knew –which room was hers.

The child lets go of the handle, shuffles toward her, thrusting her little body into the arms of the housekeeper. _Rosie _falls to the floor as tiny arms latch together around her neck. She feels soft lashes fluttering against her neck. Soon the flesh of her neck and collar of her nightdress are damp from what she knows to be tears. She tightens her arms around the child reassuringly before pulling back to look into those sad blue eyes.

"Whatever is the matter, lass?" she whispers. "What has gotten you into such a state?"

A sniffle and a hitch of breath. "Dream."

She reaches for a handkerchief on her vanity, wipes away the tears. "Would you like to tell me about it?" She feels a shake and the small body burrows closer. "Why didn't you wake Nanny?"

The girl moves impossibly closer, reaches for the handkerchief, holds it close, studies the embroidered roses in the candlelight. "Nanny would be very mad."

She rests her chin lightly atop the child's head, smiles knowingly. Nanny would be very upset, indeed.

* * *

_Eight_

She cannot stop the gasp that escapes her lips as she sees the child standing before her, her disagreement with the cook forgotten for the moment. She grabs a clean flannel, wets it. Takes the child's hand and leads her toward her parlor.

Once they reach the small room, she pushes the girl to sit in the chair behind the desk while she rummages for her first aid kit. Puts a dab of alcohol on the wet flannel, cleans the blood from the girl's chin best she can. A hiss comes from the girl. She slips the torn stocking down the girl's leg and cleans the knee also. Another hiss.

The housekeeper gently, but firmly reminds her that young ladies are not to be climbing trees or racing against the stable boys to see who is fastest. Especially in their new frocks that have just come from Paris. The girl's large blue eyes are downcast, guilty. A finger gently raises her chin. Blue meet blue in a gaze of understanding. Concern mixed with fondness cloud the older woman's eyes. The younger smiles shyly and reaches forward, wraps her gangly arms around her, says thank you.

She returns the hug. Reaches in a drawer and withdraws a piece of candied ginger she saves just for the girl.

* * *

_Twelve_

It is early. Not even the kitchen maids are about yet, but the housekeeper cannot sleep. There are a few ledgers she can give a look at, she supposes. She pushes back the bed cover and gets up, bare feet touching the cold floor. A shiver runs through her. She reaches for her dressing gown at the end of her bed, her slippers, opens her door and silently makes her way to the privy.

On her way back, she looks up, sees a flash of something enter her bedroom. She quickens her pace, hopes one of the maids has not fallen ill. She rounds the door frame, sees the young girl –lady –sitting in front of her vanity. She closes the door, walks to the young lady. Swiftly lights the candle and can see a bunched swath of cloth on her lap. She kneels down, lifts the girl's chin and can see she has been crying.

"What is it, milady?" she says quietly.

The girl leans forward over her bundle, whispers in the woman's ear. Her eyes widen, then soften in understanding. She takes the small hands in her own, smiles as she squeezes them reassuringly. She has long given up asking why she does not seek out her mother or sisters. Just accepts it, and happily so. This young lady is the closest she has to a daughter.

She takes the bundle from the girl, talks softly to her, explains. There is nothing wrong. It happens to every woman.

* * *

_Sixteen_

The housekeeper is speaking with the butler when they are interrupted. The family has just returned from the season in London – the young lady's first. She feels her heart swell a little. She knows the young lady will come to see her, tell her about the season – the sights, the sounds, the smells. She has already told her a little. Though it is perhaps not very proper, the young lady has written to her here and there over the season, describing some of her experiences, in turn asking after her and the staff, the house. She responded with equal affection she had received from the young lady.

The two of them make their way to the entrance hall, wait for the Crawleys to walk through. The Lord and Lady of the house greet them warmly, as do the girls. She catches the eye of the young lady, smiles and receives one in return. She exchanges words with Lady Grantham. There is a garden party to prepare for. Before she is excused her eyes meet the young lady's again.

She walks away, heads below stairs. She must ready a tea tray for her impending visitor.

* * *

_Twenty_

In all actuality it does not surprise her that the youngest lady of the house has decided to become a nurse, her need to help with the war effort strong. She has become a strong-minded individual, caring and passionate. She cannot help herself, but she is proud. Proud of the young woman the little girl she had held on her lap many a time has become.

What does surprise her, though, is that the young woman asks her for help in learning a few tasks to make the transition smoother, all things she tries to tell her others are more adept at. But the girl is insistent and the housekeeper knows she cannot deny her. She shrugs her shoulders in defeat, smiles. The girl, forgetting she is a young lady of twenty, throws her arms around the older woman, hugs her tightly, thanks her profusely.

They begin the next day. She guides the young lady – shows her how to darn a sock, mend an apron, remove stains, strip a bed, make it up again. Though there is fuss from the matron of the kitchen, she shows the young lady how to fill a kettle and boil water for tea, make toast, get the right consistency for porridge. She is a little rusty on the kitchen side of things herself –has not made or baked much since she entered service at seventeen –but she finds it all comes back easily. The muscle memory is still there.

The two of them share an afternoon tea together in her sitting room. It has been two weeks since she has spent extra time teaching the young lady. The tea the lady has prepared is wonderful, the shortbread she helped bake is perfect. She praises her quick study.

The young lady will be leaving in another week. The housekeeper believes she is ready. She will make a fine nurse.

* * *

_Death_

She is numb. Does not really hear or comprehend the words the vicar is speaking. Tears silently and unabashedly spill down her cheeks. She reaches inside her sleeve, pulls out the her handkerchief, the one with an embroidered roses on it, one she had used many times to dry the young lady's tears when she had been a child. Uses it now, to dry her own tears. Fresh ones take their place. She does not care.

His presence beside her is solid. He takes hold of her elbow, steadies her. He knows the depth of her feeling and hurt, has watched the housekeeper and the youngest Crawley daughter over the years, sees the strong affection between Lady Mary and himself mirrored. He stands tall, needs to remain strong for her. She moves her elbow out of this grasp, leans against him slightly. She finds his hand with her own, holds it tightly as more tears escape.

The last prayer is spoken. Mourners begin to file away, back to the house. She feels his arm wrap around her shoulder to steer her away. She remains rooted on the spot. He squeezes her shoulder, lets her know he will wait until she is ready and walks down the path to wait.

She moves closer, sees the casket adorned with flowers. She lets her shoulders slump. Her tears and memories flow freely. This newly deceased lady is the daughter she never had. She grieves now for the small daughter who will never have the chance to know her mother. She vows, if she is able, she will tell Sybil of her mother, of the sweet, compassionate woman she was.

The housekeeper feels a light touch on her shoulder, turns to see the glassy-eyed, ever-poised Lady Grantham. They share a mutual expression of loss –of two mothers, one biological, the other a surrogate –both grieving the loss of a child. The two women stand shoulder to shoulder looking forward. A bird chirps in a nearby tree. She feels Lady Grantham take her hand, gently grip it. No words are spoken. Then, a consoling whisper.

"I know she was your favorite, Mrs. Hughes."


	2. Home

A/N: So, it's been done before, but I was listening to this song for about the millionth time and couldn't get it out of my head. Incidentally, the prompt is the same as the title of the song. Lyrics from "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Great group!

Also, a big thank you to those who read, reviewed, and/or favorited the first snippet! Enjoy this one! It seems to have got away from me…hmm…

* * *

**Home**

"_Let me come home  
Home is whenever I'm with you  
Ahh, home. Let me come home  
Home is when I'm alone with you"_

Elsie feels dazed, somewhat confused. She can hardly recall walking into the house, let alone her parlor. She holds the straw doll in her hand, fingering the small buttons on its frock, the ribbon on its hat. It was sweet; a sweet gesture she hadn't really expected after such a long silence between them.

When she had first received the letter, she'd been surprised by it. Even Charles had noticed a change in her behavior, asked after her, concerned. It _had_ been over eighteen years after all. Even though they had parted ways long ago, hadn't kept in contact, she still considers Joe Burns a friend. She cannot really explain what drove her to respond to his letter in the first place. Curiosity, she supposes.

If she was honest with herself, she'd had a hunch as to why Joe had asked her to meet him in the first place. Married men didn't often go around paying calls on former beaus, now, did they? Maybe they did, but she felt she still knew Joe well enough to know he wouldn't do such a thing. Elsie decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, take the pragmatic route. If it came to that, she would tackle it then.

Conversation flowed easily between them despite the long absence of time from when they had last spoken. He told her about his farm, his son, life after his wife's death. In return she told him about Downton, life above and below stairs. At times during their evening at the fair, she thought she caught glimpses of the old Joe she'd known in the days when they had been walking out together all those years ago.

Her intuition had been correct. After the lovely time he had shown her, she walked away with a token of his affection, a chaste kiss on her cheek, and a proposal of marriage.

Elsie is sitting at her desk now and smiles fondly at the little doll in her hand. She had told Joe she would think about his offer, give him her answer within the week. She is flattered, that he is asking again even after she had turned him down once. Flattered, but still, she cannot shake the heaviness she feels weighing on her heart.

She hears a soft tap at her door and sees Charles poke his head in.

"Enjoy yourself this evening?" His tone is amiable, curious in a friendly manner.

Elsie sets the doll down, switches off the lamp on her desk and stands.

"I did, Charles, but I think I ought to heading up to bed if I'm to be fit for tomorrow." She looks up at him, gives him a small, friendly smile. "Goodnight."

He nods to her. "Goodnight, Elsie."

Carson stands in the doorway of her parlor, looking after her as she walks towards the stairs. He watches as her hands reach up to pull out the pin securing her hat in place, then disappear up the stairs. He shakes his head a little, dismayed.

She had been in a strange mood since she'd first received that letter earlier in the week. He had asked, of course, whether something had upset her. She insisted it was nothing, just a letter from an old friend. He wasn't so sure about it, didn't believe her at all actually, but he knew better than to press her on the matter.

Carson allows himself the pride to believe that he knows Elsie Hughes fairly well after working closely with her for nigh on eighteen years, considers her his dearest friend. There is not much he has withheld from over the years, and she from him. At least he thinks and hopes so. Her recent behavior causes doubt to settle in the pit of his stomach, regarding Downton's housekeeper. The last time Carson remembers seeing her out of sorts was when he had first met the woman filling the position as the new head housemaid.

Oh, had she a head for the job! Carson smiles warmly at the memory. Other than himself, he had never seen anyone so dedicated to their work. Determined, almost, not to be idle for a moment, except perhaps in sleep. She had softened after a year or so, became less rigid, began initiating conversations with the other maids, making barbs even. She'd even addressed him on a rare occasion, seemingly still shy of his station above hers.

It was not long after her first year, that she'd been promoted to housekeeper when her predecessor, Mrs. Hawkins, decided to retire. The two of them became equals then –two sides of the same coin. They found they worked well together, fell into an easy routine to keep the house smoothly. On a whim, he had asked her to join him for a glass of leftover wine one night after all the maids and footmen had gone to bed. She'd opened up to him that first evening in his pantry, something he'd not been expecting. It must have been the wine talking! Had told him that she had turned down a marriage proposal from a man she'd been walking out with. Not ready to leave service yet, she'd said.

Carson wonders now if the old friend her letter had been from might have come from this man, if he might have asked Elsie whether she was ready to leave service yet. He contemplates this thought. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Since that first glass of wine is his pantry, rarely an evening has gone by where the two of them have not shared each other's company. The growing friendship between that followed seemed only natural. A comfortable habit formed between them –a habit involving quiet conversation over wine, sherry, a cup of tea; sometimes companionable silence as she caught up on mending or household account books, he on the wine ledgers or polishing a stray piece of silver.

Carson cannot imagine not spending an evening with her, is troubled she is unwilling to share her thoughts with him, wishes she would.

He is still standing in the doorway of her parlor. The light from the hallway casts a glow on her desk, the small object she had been holding not ten minutes ago catching his eye. He squints at it, realizes it's a doll. He can't say for certain, but he has a strong feeling it came from whoever had sent her that letter.

He turns away, partially closes the door to Elsie's parlor. Decides to turn in for the night.

* * *

Carson watches Elsie the next few days, closely as he is able without her catching on. She goes about her day as usual, so far as he sees. She is good –almost too good –at hiding behind her stern façade. He debates whether to bring up the letter, the fair, and the doll each night when they meet after everyone has gone to bed. He is still chewing on this thought when she enters his pantry. Elsie smiles, takes her customary seat across from him.

"That's everyone gone up," she says by way of greeting.

He returns her smile, offers her a glass. She accepts it gratefully, takes a dainty sip.

"To your liking, Mrs. Hughes?" Carson inquires, already knowing her needn't have to.

She smiles again, a smile he sees so rarely except when they are alone together in the evenings. He wonders if she saves it just for him, or if it feels more natural when the pressures of the day are behind them. He cannot honestly say, but he likes to think so.

"Always, Mr. Carson. I'll never know half as much about wine as you, but you'll not hear any complaints from me."

Her response is the same as always. It has become a private joke between them for him to ask how the wine is and for her answer and compliment him on his tastes in some way or another. It is his turn to smile, blush slightly. He enjoys this time with her at the end of the day. It is quiet, normal, with a hint of domesticity hanging over them. They sip in silence.

His thoughts of earlier cross his mind once, wonders if he should broach the subject.

She thinks of Joe's offer, wonders if she should tell him.

"I short-changed you the other day, Charles," she says finally, looking across to him over her glass.

He is puzzled for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. That she spoke his name is nothing new. They have been on a first-name basis for years. She extrapolates.

"I mean about the fair. I had a lovely time. Watching the magicians, the mimes, ribbon dancers, everything; it was all wonderful. I'm almost felt like a young girl again."

He looks at her, sees her smile again. A private one this time it seems, but then it wanes.

"I'm glad it was a nice time for you, Elsie," Carson says, watching her carefully. She nods in acknowledgement. "I almost regret not going myself, but you know as well as I that a butler's duty is never ending."

They share a grin at his jest, take another sip from their glasses. He is still watching her, she is moving away from him, lost in her thoughts. But then she is speaking again.

"I met an old friend of mine, Joe Burns. You remember I told you about him? I hadn't heard from him in years. It was lovely to catch up with him, hear about how he has got on all this time." She pauses. Carson sees a kind of sadness begin to cloud her expression. After a time, she goes on in a quiet voice, almost a whisper. "He's asked me to marry him, again."

Carson sits up a little straighter. So he had been right. He is unsettled by this, tries not to let it show. Doesn't quite know what to say, is not even sure her last thought was meant for him. Before he can make up his mind, the clock on the wall chimes, breaks the silence between them. Midnight. She stands reluctantly.

"We both best head upstairs if we know what's good for us," she says quietly. "Another day tomorrow. Here, I'll tidy up our glasses."

He makes to protest, but she takes his glass before he has a chance to argue. Their fingers brush together lightly. They meet each other's gaze –lost for a moment –and she jerks away suddenly, the spell between them broken.

"Goodnight, Charles."

He nods. "Goodnight, Elsie."

Elsie walks to the scullery, makes quick work of washing their glasses. She leaves them to dry on a towel one of the kitchen maids has set out, anticipating midnight kitchen visitors. She switches off the light and makes her way upstairs.

Joe's offer and Charles' reaction to her telling him of it weigh heavily on her mind as Elsie readies herself for bed. She hadn't meant to say it, but it escaped her she couldn't take the words back now. Charles hadn't said anything. She doesn't know why, but is bothers her a little. She hadn't given him enough time to respond in any event after the clock chimed.

Elsie had written Joe this morning, letting him know she would meet him at Grantham Arms tomorrow to give him her answer, even though she hadn't fully decided what she wanted yet. She continues to contemplate what he is asking of her, pulls her nightdress over her head. She still isn't sure if she wants to go back to that way of life. That is why she left it in the first place, to get away from it. Joe was still a kind man, a good man. She has no doubt about that, but she cannot tell whether theirs would be a marriage of companionship or convenience, whether he merely wants someone to keep his house and if she is just someone familiar. She feels it might be for both, with a little more emphasis on the latter.

She shakes her head, ties off the end of her braid. She crawls into bed, extinguishes the candle at her bedside. Elsie stares up at the ceiling. She doesn't think she can resign herself to that kind of life again. Downton has been her home for many years now; the people living and working there, her surrogate family. She enjoys the measure of comfort she has come know from working here, in spite of the long hours and long days a life in service demands.

Elsie thinks of the young maids she has worked with over the years. Of her time as a young maid herself, nervous about performing the job well. The first housekeeper she'd worked with had taken her aside, reassured her things would get better, the pain of leaving home would lessen, and in time, the house she worked for would become a second home. The longer she worked in service, the more she came to see and even appreciate that those downstairs operated as a family unit as much as those upstairs that they served.

In time, Elsie had been promoted to head housemaid, had remained in that house for nearly ten years. Had first met Joe while employed there, had turned him down upon receiving an offer at a larger house she'd looked into farther south. When she had first come to Downton as head housemaid, Elsie had not felt settled into the downstairs family, not right away. It had taken a little over a year before she fully felt a part of this makeshift family that wasn't quite her own.

And soon after, she became housekeeper and the role of comforter fell to her. She privately enjoys this role, extends it to everyone downstairs though it perhaps is not quite proper. It always makes her heart swell a little to know she has helped or provided comfort for these young men and women she stretches her wings over. Sometimes even the not so young, she muses, thinking of the barrel of man who is Downton's stoic butler.

Joe enters her mind again abruptly and she feels a pang of sadness regarding him. She turns on her side, burrows her head in her pillow, her mind still churning. She thinks of the night she shared in his company. He is a lovely man with a good heart, but she doesn't want to be a farmer's wife, never has. She never expected to be as fortunate as she has been in her life, and is thankful for all she's been given. She doesn't think of turning her back on it any longer.

When Elsie meets Joe the next day, she sees his face is bright and hopeful. She is loathe to be the one to make it cloud over, but she knows she must. He deflates almost instantly. She is sorry, truly sorry, but it is not the life for her. There are too many people under her care, relying on her just as she, in her own way, relies on them. She cannot abandon them, not now.

Joe is graceful as she turns down his proposal for the second time. Smiles, understands even. Says he thought it was a shot in the dark to begin with, but thought he'd try again in any case. Elsie returns his smile, somewhat relieved. She wishes him well, tells him he will find another woman, to remain optimistic. Extends an invitation to continue their correspondence so they might know how the other got on. He smiles, the hope returning to his face.

"I'd like that, Elsie," he says quietly. "Thank you."

Elsie takes his hand then, gives it a friendly, reassuring squeeze. "I mean it, Joe. I've always considered you a dear friend and was sorry we had lost contact over time and am even sorrier, now I've turned you down again."

He gives her a rueful look. "I knew it was probably for naught, as I said before, Elsie. But I thought I'd take a chance, see if my luck had changed."

Elsie nods, still feeling somewhat guilty, then sits straighter in her chair. "I suppose I best be getting on my way, before I'm missed at the house."

Joe inclines his head. "Yes."

Elsie squeezes his hand again. "Please do write, Joe, and I'll try to do the same when the time allows. I'd love it if you did."

"I will, Elsie. Good luck to you." He tips his hat to her politely.

"And to you, Joe," she says softly as she stands. She stops, reaches into her purse, pulls out the doll and holds out to him.

He smiles again, shakes his head. "Keep it. Perhaps there will be a little girl in need of it someday."

"Thank you, Joe."

She leaves then, walks through the village. She sees children, running, laughing and screaming in delight. She watches various men scurry about, dissembling tents, cleaning the square. It is time for the fair to move on, just as she too, must be moving. Despite her rejection of Joe's marriage proposal, Elsie moves easily, feels light on her feet. She smiles to anyone she passes on the road, receives a tip of a hat or one in return.

Soon, the house comes into view –this grand house, the grand family Elsie serves moving within it, the other patchwork family moving behind the scenes as well. She walks to the servants' entrance, her mind already on the tasks she must complete before dinner that evening. She sees a tall figure standing in the doorway, one she is not accustomed to seeing there. She smiles at him, thinking the walls of Downton might well crumble should he ever decide to follow another path in life. He has become a constant for her. A pillar she has leant on for strength and support.

He is staring out, thoughtfully. He doesn't notice as she walks through the courtyard toward him. His brow is slightly furrowed in concentration. It is not often she finds him in such an exposed state of mind; he steels his thoughts and emotions as carefully as she does her own. They are quite a pair, she thinks, the two of them. Partners, equals in their places. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Elsie almost laughs now, at the thought of leaving Downton, cannot believe she almost considered it. She would never be as unconditionally devoted to the Crawley family as he was, but she would have missed it, would have missed this life she has carved out for herself. She would have missed Downton, her role as housekeeper, surrogate mother, mediator.

It comes to her suddenly. She would miss all of it, yes, but not nearly as much as she would miss the quiet nights spent together talking, going over household accounts, losing her temper at him, laughing at the antics of the staff, discussing the novels they were reading. Not as much as she would miss him. She takes a deep breath, smiles at the thought.

"You've accepted him, then?"

He's taken notice now and his question startles her from her thoughts. Elsie meets his gaze, a hint of her smile lingering in her eyes. She reaches for his hand, takes it.

"No, Charles, I've come home."


	3. Routine

A/N: Thank you to those who are reading. Hope you enjoy! Comments and thoughts are welcomed and appreciated. This is also slightly AU; hopefully not so much that it seems OOC.

**Routine**

Elsie Hughes has not been at Downton long before she realizes his Lordship's valet thoroughly fascinates her. Oh, he is a handsome man to be sure! Tall, broad-shouldered with dark eyes and hair, a deep, resonating voice. And then there is that errant lock of hair he swats his hand at sometimes, annoyed when it falls forward as he concentrates on mending a shirt collar in the servants' hall or polishing a pair of shoes in the courtyard after the young Earl retires for the evening.

Yes, she is drawn to him – for more than his physical attributes, though. After nearly half a year of working at Downton, she's begun picking up on his habits. Every task he sets himself to –not just the ones he completes for his Lordship, but also things he does for himself –is done on a certain schedule. She wonders if he even realizes he does it. His actions are so precise, Elsie can almost time them by the chiming of the clock on the wall. Frequents walks or reading in the evenings once his mending is finished. Sometimes even plays the piano, though this is a rare event. He's recently become intrigued by the word puzzles they've started printing in the newspapers and will spend time solving them in the evenings or during tea time. She's even helped him on occasion, curious.

It is while she is helping the young Countess undress one evening, standing in for her lady's maid who has been ill with a nasty cold, that she has made up to her mind to ask if she might join him for his walk this evening. She looks at the small clock on her Ladyship's vanity. If she is lucky she may be able to catch him before he sets off.

"Thank you for stepping in for Caroline today, Elsie. I know it mustn't be easy on top of your other duties," the other woman says quietly as Elsie unlaces her corset.

"Tis no trouble at all, milady. It's nice to have a change of pace now and then."

Cora smiles as the fabric is pulled away from her. She breathes in deeply and dons her nightdress, sits down at the vanity. She watches as Elsie neatly folds her clothing, places it back in the wardrobe. The other woman cannot be much older than her –three, four years or so. She moves gracefully about the room. She is beautiful, delicately so, Cora thinks. Clear, blue eyes with pale, freckled skin she's noticed is so common among the people she's met since coming to England.

Her accent is different as well, defines the head housemaid as Cora's defines her. Cora notices she tries to hide it sometimes, wonders why. She does a much better job at it than Cora would ever be able to.

Elsie comes to stand behind Cora, carefully begins undoing her hair. She picks up the brush, runs it through her hair gently. Separates it into even sections, skillfully braids it before tying off the end.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, milady?"

Cora meets her eye in the mirror. "No, thank you, Elsie."

"Shall I wake you in the morning? Bring your tea tray round for you?"

"Yes, that would be wonderful."

Elsie nods, curtsies politely before leaving the room. She hurries downstairs, hopes he hasn't left yet. She grabs a shawl from the rack across from the servants' hall, sees him just as he is about to step out the door. She calls out to him.

"Mr. Carson!"

He looks up upon hearing his name. She reaches him quickly, smiles. Receives one in return.

"It's a bit late for you to be up, isn't it, Elsie?" he says.

She shakes her head. "Mr. Carson, I wondered –that is, I wanted to ask if I might join you on your walk this evening. Tis a lovely night."

If he is surprised by her request, he hides it well. His response is what surprises her.

"I'd like that, Elsie."

* * *

They take care after that first walk to be discreet in their private meetings. Outwardly, all appearances are kept up. They still spend evenings in the servants' hall finishing up their tasks for the day, but have also begun to meet in the courtyard to converse privately, walk the grounds together in the evenings after most everyone has gone to bed, save for the housekeeper or the butler. They are shy at first, this recent shift in their relationship novel to both of them.

He is proper; almost as stiff in their courtship as the starched collared shirt he wears. She is the bold one of the two of them. After a month she takes his hand instead when he offers his arm, leans against him as they walk together, kisses his cheek goodnight. When he leaves for the season, with a promise to write faithfully, she wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him properly for the first time, whispers that she loves him. He is stunned for a moment, then responds. Wraps his arms around her, returns her kiss with equal tenderness.

His letters come dependably, two times a week. She sends her responses the day after, receives his two days later. The cycle is reiterated throughout the season he is away –the contents of his letters filled with tales of London. A show he's been to, the walks he takes along Thames, his visits to Buckingham Palace, St. Paul's Cathedral, his desire to share this with her one day, to see her. Her responses are a little more practical –sedate –yet still filled with love and affection, an unwritten longing to see him reflected in the words.

* * *

When they first express their desire to marry after the third year she's worked at Downton, they are surprised and fortunate Lord and Lady Grantham allow them to stay on, agreeing on the ground that if their relationship hasn't interfered with the running of the house thus far, they couldn't foresee a problem with it. They have even insisted the two of them be allowed their own space when the time came for it.

About a year later, they move into a small, quaint cottage on the estate, not far from the big house. On and off throughout that first year, she has spent many of her half-days at the cottage, tidying up, preparing it for their arrival. She laughs when he insists on carrying her over the threshold, despite her protests that she has been in and out of their little house at least a hundred times.

The two of them make love that first night in the cottage, and every time after, savoring the knowledge that they no longer have to restrain themselves as they did that first year, do not have to stifle the gasps or cries of pleasure they gain from each other. They are especially thankful for this, when not long after their fourth anniversary came and went, she whispers to him that another Carson would be joining them in a few months' time.

* * *

They have been married a little over ten years now. In that time, he has become butler of Downton and she, the housekeeper upon the retirement of their predecessors. He still he fascinates her. The sound of his voice, the glint in his eyes, the way he moves, the old and new habits he's sown over the years and follows to a t. Each facet – an integral part of what defines him.

She watches him now, from the comfort of their bed. Watches as he methodically lays out his clothing for the day –his Sunday best. First he pulls his shoes from the cupboard, sets them by the chair. Then come his trousers, his shirt, his socks, all laid neatly over the chair. Ready for his return from washing up.

Elsie sighs, smiles. She moves over to lie on his pillow, continues watching him silently. It is Sunday; they are allowed a bit of a lie-in this day. He rises early today, though, as he does every day. Usually does before her on most days. Usually puts the kettle on most mornings so she doesn't have to.

Charles looks back to the bed, sees her watching him from his side of the bed. He moves back to the bed, perches on the edge. Leans down and kisses her warmly.

"Did you sleep well?" she whispers.

He nods. "Yes, I was just going to set the kettle on and have a wash."

"Mmm." She sits up and he kisses her once more before leaving the room.

Elsie reaches for her dressing gown, wraps it around herself. She finds her slippers, slides her feet into them. They are fortunate, even more so since they've had Olivia. Elsie is always given Sundays off and Charles, Mondays. One whole day where they each can give their undivided attention to their wee one. She leaves their bedroom, walks to Olivia's door. She looks in, is surprised when she sees the bed empty. It is still early yet. Most days, the child doesn't wake until Elsie croons softly in her ear.

She hears a giggle down the short hallway. Perhaps the two of them are in the small kitchen. She walks on, the giggling continues, becomes more pronounced as she draws near to the privy. Elsie peers around the door frame, sees her young daughter standing barefoot on the vanity, still in her nightdress. She is all reddish brown curls, large hazel brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. The plait Elsie had done her hair up last night is mussed from a restful night's sleep.

The scene before her warms Elsie inside and out. She smiles. Father and daughter have both just finished cleaning their teeth, the younger of the two more determinedly so, showing off their cleanliness to the older. Their toothbrushes return to their stations next to the third, the small box of baking soda back to the shelf. She watches as Charles rolls up his sleeves, adds a little water to the powder in the small finger bowl in his hand. He swirls the brush a few times creating a rich lather. She watches her daughter's eyes light up in fascination. He hands the brush to their little one, lets her brush the lather over his face. When she satisfied with the result, she hands the brush back.

"Now me, Papa," she says excitedly and Elsie cannot help but laugh quietly.

Two sets of dark eyes turn to see her in the doorway, faces brightening.

"I'm helping Papa," Olivia says proudly.

"I see that, lass," her mother agrees, walking in to them. "Perhaps we ought to let Papa finish and you can help me with sorting out the tea tray."

"Oh, but we're not done yet, Mummy." The little girl looks her father, face still lathered up. "We aren't yet, are we, Papa?"

"I daresay say we are not, Miss Livi," he says affectionately, sets down the brush and bowl. He turns to Elsie, winks. "We're almost done, Mummy."

She puts her hands up in mock defense. "Pardon me for interrupting. I'll go check the on the kettle, shall I?"

Elsie hears her daughter giggle again as she leaves, turns to see Charles has picked up the bowl again, is lathering their daughter's face. She rolls her eyes, smiles as she shakes her head in amusement.

She is hard-pressed to deny them this new Sunday morning ritual.


	4. Exploration

A/N: Thank you to those who've been taking the time to review! Bumped up the rating for this snippet. It was inspired by the scene in the film _Amelie_ where Amelie and Nino meet face to face for the first time.

* * *

**Exploration**

He is surprised to see her, that much is evident.

The flame of the candle at his bedside flickers, and shadows dance across his face. Elsie stands with her back against the solid wood of the door behind her. She breathes in and out slowly, gathers herself. Cannot believe she is standing where she is. She takes a tentative step away from the door. Another. And another until her knees bump against the mattress on his bed.

He moves his lips to speak and she boldly places a finger against them, preventing the question from leaving his mouth. She does not have an answer, doesn't know why she's come to his bedroom late this night, doesn't really want to think about it. She's often wondered what it would be like, imagined a moment like this.

She's been in his bedroom a few times before, had refused to leave his bedside while he suffered from the Spanish Flu. But she doesn't know why tonight of all nights is the night she chose to go to him.

The only thing she knows at this minute is that the skin of his lip is soft, slightly chapped beneath her finger. She slowly moves her fingertip along, tracing his mouth. Her fingers find his eyes, brush his lashes ever so slightly as he closes them.

Elsie takes his stillness as acceptance.

She gingerly sits on the edge of his bed, her hand resting lightly against the stubble of his cheek. Her fingers continue their quest, outlining his jaw, strong chin, up to his hairline. She leans forward slightly, feels her breasts brush lightly against his the broad expanse of his chest, feels her nipples tighten. She hears his sharp intake of breath and closes her eyes for a moment, smiles inwardly. Leans forward more and softly kisses his brow. His eyes close again and she kisses each lid delicately. She moves lower and kisses the tip of his nose. Leans in farther, kisses his temple, the shell of his ear.

His arms reach up and push her back slightly, his eyes searching, wondering. He sees an innocently mischievous glint in her eyes. He sits up straight, leans against the headboard.

Elsie remains in place, closes her eyes, does not speak. Only points. Her forehead, her cheek, her eyes. His lips follow obediently. She turns her head to the side and feels his lips on her pulse, her ear, and finally her temple. Her finger moves to the corner of her mouth, then the other and he continues to follow her lead.

She pulls back, opens her eyes to look at him. His pupils are dilated in the dim light, so much so that his eyes appear black. She knows different. Knows they are a soft hazel brown. She touches her finger to her bottom lip, holds his gaze for a moment. His lips touch hers in a tentative first kiss.

Elsie feels her heart swell, nearly burst as a feeling of completeness overcomes her, wonders if he feels the same.

She feels his mouth begin to move against hers, finds herself responding. Boldly. Eagerly. Her hands move up along his strong arms, shoulders, link behind his neck. Her fingers play at the nape of his neck. Slightly calloused hands cup her face gently. His tongue darts out tentatively, traces her bottom lip. She answers the request, parts her lips slightly.

Their breathing grows heavy. Lips become swollen, cheeks reddened. They hardly notice in the faint light. They do not feel rushed. They have all night.

His hands rise along the back of her neck, thread into her hair, search for the pins securing it, pull them out one by one, sets them on the bedside table. He maneuvers them so they are both standing. Threads his fingers into her hair once more, kisses her ardently. He pulls away, searches her eyes once more. Elsie rests her hands on his upper arms, smiles. She reaches forward, kisses him again.

They each take this as their cue.

His fingers reach for the tie of her dressing gown as hers find the buttons of his pajama top. They undress each other slowly, reverently. Their clothing is draped haphazardly across the chair beside his bed. Fingertips and lips ghost along newly exposed skin. Goosebumps rise on their skin.

Soon they are fully exposed to each other and grow somewhat shy, apprehensive of what the other thinks. There are wrinkles, blemishes, softness where there was once firmness. They are not fooled. They are not perfect; no doubt they each worry about it. They meet each other's eyes and grin shyly. They are ok with that.

Elsie reaches a hand out to touch his chest, her fingers disappearing in the silver hair covering his chest, runs them down to the softness of his midsection, his hip, and back up his arm. She can feel her heart thump wildly in her chest, the beat of it loud in her ear and wonders if he can hear it too. His fingertips are at her waist tracing the curve of her pelvis, up her sides, grazing her breasts, brushing her hardened nipples. His thumb moves along her clavicle till it rests in the place where both meet at the base of her neck, feel her pulse under the pad of his thumb. He leans down and kisses the hollow lightly. Rests his head there for a moment.

They move to sit on the bed once more, his hand maintains contact with her skin. He cups her cheek again and leans in to kiss her slightly parted lips. His hand moves down, presses against her shoulder gently. She leans back on the bed, brings him with her.

He is a large man, she knows. Tall, much taller than her, broad-shouldered. His weight on her is a comfort, feels right. Elsie cradles his head against her breast, combs her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck once more. They lay like this for a moment, taking in this new intimacy of their bodies, their minds.

Her heart is still beating wildly, more rapidly. His head twists; she feels his lips pressing against her heart. His arms trail up her sides possessively and her legs open to wrap him fully in her embrace. They are still for a moment. They begin moving together. Friction builds slowly. They are panting, delicious knots of pleasure building inside each of them. Before long, he feels her body stiffen, then shudder uncontrollably. He follows soon after. Cannot control his erratic movements. Collapses on top of her. Spent.

After a time, he moves. Attempts to lift himself, worries he is crushing the breath from her lungs. Her arms and legs tighten around him. He complies, understands the need for physical contact, but shifts so he is not directly on top of her. She straightens her legs out, keeps them entangled with his.

His breathing begins to even out. His breath is chilly against her dampened skin, her chest. She feels her nipple contract again. She massages his scalp, begins to fall asleep as her other hand surveys the muscular planes of his back.

They are content, warm, full.


	5. Making History

A/N: Just a small warning: mentions of abuse in this one. Nothing graphic, just a word about it. As always, thank you to those who are reading! Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Making History**

_April 1912_

It is Sunday; the grand house is empty. Nearly everyone is at church, offering prayers for the lives and families of those souls lost recently. Elsie has stayed behind today, has made the excuse of a headache. She finishes addressing two envelopes, sets down her pen. She leaves her parlor, places the two letters in the box for outgoing post.

She wanders upstairs, walks through the house. Elsie surveys the various rooms, makes mental notes for what should be done in the coming week, what can be done during the season. If the family decides to spend it in London this year, that is.

She finishes her rounds, finds herself standing in the front hall of the house. She turns around the hall slowly, looks –really looks—at the fine architecture of the stone arches and pillars, thinks of the fine architecture of the whole house. Thinks of all this house has seen, been through, how many guests, dinners, balls it has hosted, and will (hopefully) continue to host.

Elsie thinks of the fine family occupying the house, the dilemma now facing them. She feels a sadness for them –something she's not ever felt for this family, not before the events that transpired earlier this month. They are her employers, not her family. Her job is to be concerned with the smoothing running of the house; it was not to her benefit to become wrapped in their affairs, lest it interfere in her keeping things from falling apart. It has served her well throughout the years to remember this, unlike other members of the staff she prefers not to think of. However, she lets this conviction go at the moment and she cannot help but feel for them and the raw insecurity they are experiencing.

She thinks of this and is glad. Glad she has not been born into that kind of life.

Oh, there had been a time where she wished she had been though –what young girl wouldn't wish for pretty dresses and hair ribbons, rouge-faced china dolls, or a fancy party to attend? She had often thought that if she had been born into privilege she wouldn't have experienced the kind of uncertainties she had. The uncertainty of a way of life so dependent on the land and at the mercy of the weather and changing seasons that the failure of a crop could mean a winter of extreme hardship and little nourishment; the uncertainty of her father's belt or fist when he had had too much to drink some nights; the uncertainty of whether she wanted to follow her mother's footsteps and take on the role of a farmer's wife for the rest of her days.

She made her decision when she'd turned eighteen, had entered a life of service. Had not looked back since.

She has not looked back on that decision made all those years ago, not until they had learned of the sinking of the Titanic, and with it, the sinking of the Crawley family's future. Patrick Crawley had been their hope. And now he and that hope were gone.

Elsie thinks of this family she serves –their history, their duties and obligations. She thinks of her history, her duties, her obligations. Thinks that even though they may exist on different social planes, they are not that different. Not really. Their stations define who they are, and the choices they are able to make.

There is one difference though, that Elsie has become more appreciative and grateful of the older she gets. She has been able to lead a life of her own making rather than one she was expected to follow. She's made a life for herself, has been independent, has worked and earned her own income. She has loved fiercely, has been loved fiercely in return, has born the fruit of that love happily and proudly. Was fortunate to have previously had an understanding family to work for. She has grieved the loss of loved ones.

And now, she cares for and looks after all the members of the grand household she currently serves.

Elsie is lucky her good fortunate did not run dry, as she was wont to think it might have at one point just over ten years ago. She is not naïve or ungrateful enough to forget that. She does not feel unconditionally bound to the Crawley family, but they have been compassionate toward her. At the risk of impropriety, they had taken on a widowed, albeit experienced housekeeper with two children not much older than their own daughters.

In spite of certain hardships, Elsie has had the opportunity to follow her own path, is glad her daughters have that same freedom. She feels a twinge in her belly, knows the Crawley daughters do not share this exact luxury. They have some freedom in their choices as long as they are made specific bounds. There is a duty upon their shoulders, a duty should they choose to reject it, risk losing everything they've ever known.

Elsie touches the soft petal of a rose in one of the many bouquets in the hall, takes small pleasure in its softness, its tangibility. She wonders what will happen to this family now. She is empathetic of the doubt and uncertainty that lay before them.

She wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She hears the deep, resonant voice behind her, is startled momentarily. She turns, sees the ever-present, ever-astute butler watching her curiously. She can see a touch of concern in his gaze. She drops her hand from the rose, wraps her fingers around the ring of keys at her waist. They are a constant, have been a constant for her, like he has been through her years at this house. They've become a part of her, how she will be remembered.

Elsie doesn't offer a response for him, just looks at him thoughtfully.

He tries again. "Elsie, what are you thinking? Your headache isn't worse, is it? I can ask Anna—"

She releases the keys, listens to the soft _chink _as they settle against her waist again. She gives him a sad smile.

"No," she says simply. "I mean, yes, the headache is gone. You needn't worry." She pauses for a moment. "I was thinking about history and all the choices and circumstances that shape it."

He continues to look at her, his brow becoming furrowed as he thinks of how to respond to her. After a short while he has an answer.

"It does seem a cruel irony that we can have some control over the decisions we make; yet at the same time, have absolutely none at all, doesn't it?"

She smiles again, wistful this time. "It does."

He has a knack for this, finishing her thoughts before she can find the words for them. Almost as though he already knows what she is going to say.

He standing close to her, Elsie realizes suddenly, much closer than he ever has before. Her thoughts are swirling. They should not be lingering here. The family would be returning soon, could walk through the hall at any moment. It is too public a place, and they are standing much closer than would be considered proper for a housekeeper and a butler to be standing. He, of all people, should understand this.

He is speaking again.

"It wouldn't be history, though," he continues matter-of-factly. "Wouldn't be called history without making decisions, without seen and unforeseen circumstances." He pauses, almost hesitates. "We wouldn't have history without all those before us who took a risk at one time or another."

His fingers find hers at her waist, grips them gently. Elsie looks down at their entwined hands and recognition dawns on her. She raises her gaze, sees his eyes boring into hers, can hardly believe what he is saying, suggesting.

His other hand reaches up, cups her cheek. His thumb traces her jaw line lightly. He leans closer to her, watches her reaction. Her eyes are wide, surprised.

His mouth curves into a smile, gently touches her lips with his own.


	6. Other

A/N: I've not given up! Beginning a new job sucks it out of you! Here is the next (_short!_) snippet. I'm not sure how I feel about this one though...I'm hoping to be up and running again soon. Thank you again for those who are taking the time to leave a review and/or favorite and follow the story! As always, thoughts are appreciated!

* * *

**Other**

It is not the first time Elsie thinks about the other housekeeper.

When the season approaches she cannot help but think of the other housekeeper; it is almost a natural course for her thoughts to follow, and one she's not particularly fond of either.

What do he and the other housekeeper talk about? Does he share his thoughts with her over leftover wine in the evenings as they do frequently? Does the other housekeeper accompany him to the theater as she has on occasion? Does the other housekeeper's touch on his arm linger a little longer than necessary as hers does sometimes? Does the other housekeeper write to him when he is back at the Abbey after the season the way she writes to him while he is gone?

Elsie has come to think –likes to think –that all the things he writes, says and does are for her, and for her alone. It is vain, perhaps, but there it is.

They are partners in many aspects, in many but the way she would be like to be. Sometimes when she reads his letters, she lets her mind believe that they are. She's not fooled though. Knows she has no claim over him.

They are only friends. He is her dearest friend, at least she considers him so. And this, she thinks, this is why she finds herself bristling at the thought of the season. She knows it happens, must happen every year. Doesn't mean she has to enjoy it, especially while he is away.

In spite of this, it is true that Elsie does enjoy the season somewhat. Enjoys the quiet, the relief it brings from having rush about the house making sure everything is order. Of course, she still does this during the season, but she is more relaxed, doesn't feel the same pressure she does otherwise. She enjoys the season because it gives her time to breathe easy, to catch up. Catch up on correspondence, ledgers, reading, even some of her knitting and mending.

She takes frequent walks during the season. The grounds of the abbey are beautiful and fragrant. Elsie saves his letters for these walks, so she can savor the words. She closes her eyes and feels his voice close to ear as the words rise from the page. He has enclosed a program from a show he has recently been to this time, says it reminds him of old times. Says he misses the stage sometimes. Doesn't mention if the other housekeeper accompanies him.

It makes her wonder.

She makes her way back to the house, can still hear his words (or lack of words) still speaking to her. All is still in the downstairs of the grand house. Someone has courteously left a light on for her. Elsie locks the door behind her and switches the light off. In the dark, makes her way to her parlor. She knows this house as well as she knows the expressions on his face.

In her desk drawer is an old cigar box he gave her once after her first year at Downton. He had re-gifted it for her, filled it with stationary items, asking her if she would write while he was away for the season. She can still smell the sweet tobacco as she opens the lid. She has long since used up the parchment, having faithfully written to him over the years. She has kept this box, filled it with his letters from the seasons he's been away. She loosens the ribbon holding them together, slips this one on top, tightens the ribbon once more.

She wonders if the other housekeeper keeps the letters he might have sent her.

He will be returning in a fortnight. She wonders if he is looking forward to it. Wonders if he will miss the other housekeeper. Wonders if the other housekeeper misses him the way she does while he is away.

It's not the first time she has thought of the other housekeeper.


	7. Letters

A/N: Not exactly sure how I feel about this one, but here it is in any case! Enjoy! And Happy Easter!

* * *

**Letters**

At first, the words they exchange are cordial. It has only been a few months that they have ruled jointly as the heads of the downstairs before the season is upon them. Hardly enough time to really have developed a strong, close working relationship. Only the barest of the pleasantries are expressed before the business the house and its occupants overtake the parchment on which they write, suppressing any more personal thoughts from each.

She has worked in the house for a few years as the head housemaid now, and has recently taken on the role of housekeeper after Mrs. Jenkins retired at Christmas. He's not really come to know her though, has not had time enough to discover her likes and dislikes yet as he had with Mrs. Jenkins before her. He wonders if he'll be given that opportunity.

She intrigues him. He knows underneath her somewhat cool exterior, there is a soft, humorous soul. He's seen it on occasion, her interactions with the other housemaids, footmen and kitchen staff during tea breaks or at their shared meals. He wonders if her forthcoming letters might afford him more glimpses of it.

Toward the end of the second season she's been housekeeper, he begins to notice a change in the words she writes to him. They are softer in a way; seem to float across the page in her neat, feminine hand. She writes fondly of a new housemaid, Anna. Praises her quick study, efficiency, her gentle demeanor. Writes that she thinks he will be pleased with Anna's work. Says she is looking forward to the return of the family, that it is far too quiet in the large house.

He wonders if she is looking to seeing him as he's discovered he is to see her. He isn't sure when this thought crept into his conscious, but finds he doesn't mind. No, he doesn't mind…not a bit. Finds he rather not be in the city, but in the countryside where the scent of wheat, barley and wildflowers fill his nostrils, where he can hear the familiar clanking of keys now and again as she walks the halls of the large house.

As more seasons come and go, their words grow more personal, more familiar. The words they share become an extension of the evenings they'd begun spending in each other's company soon after his return her first season in her tenure as Downton's housekeeper. Though the family's business is still ever-present in their letters, it is far from the majority of their contents. A great deal of the words are now devoted to daily activities, more personal thoughts –books they are reading, a letter she's recently received from her sister, antics of the staff, a show he's been to see in London, a fox she saw bound across a field after a hare as she walked to the village.

Underneath there are unspoken, unwritten words. Words neither have found the nerve to say or write.

She would like to tell him what she is really thinking. How she pretends at times that his letters are those a husband might write to his wife. That she imagines this sometimes when she rereads his letters late at night in the privacy of her sitting room after every one has gone to bed for the night before silently placing them in an old hatbox where she keeps all the letters he's sent to her. How sometimes, she wishes the day were over as soon as it began so that they could share a cup of tea or glass of wine. Just the two of them.

He would like to tell her that he wants nothing more than to hear the lilt in her voice when he is in London for the season, the he can't bear to listen to the grating voice of the other housekeeper at times. That he looks forward to seeing the smile she reserves for him, looks forward to the evenings they spend in his pantry or her sitting room, sometimes close together as they let the fire in the grate warm them during the winter months.

He looks down at the words he's written, knows he'll never have the courage to ever say them. He folds the page, sets is aside. Turns out the light and heads to bed.

* * *

She stares at the words in disbelief. Was it a sort of joke? She is angered by the thought. They have grown to be friends, close friends she dares to think in the last few years. Why would he write such a heartfelt confession of sorts meant for someone else and send it to her? He's never given any inclination whether he held a candle for her so she is certain the words are meant for another woman. She feels a bit childish her reaction to this letter, but she is hurt by the words. Hurt that he could so openly write what he felt for another woman, send it to her. Did he want to know her opinion on what he should write or say to this other woman?

The thought of it causes her chest to tighten.

The family returns from London a week later and she is quiet. Gives only curt responses when she addressed. When he seeks her out after everyone has gone up for the evening, her sitting room is dark. He is surprised, put out. He always looked forward to seeing her when they all returned from London. Had hoped to see her alone, give her the copy of Shelley's _Frankenstein_ wrapped in a floral patterned handkerchief he'd bought on impulse because it made him think of her, knowing of her love of Gothic novels. She's read it a number of times before, he knows, but she doesn't own a copy of it as far as he knew.

He sighs, resigns himself to double check that the house is locked up for the night. As he reaches to feel the lock, he hears what sounds like a muffled sob and sniff from the other side of the door. Concerned, he unbolts the door, opens it to see the walled courtyard behind the house bathed in moonlight. Doesn't see her until she makes a startled noise.

"Oh!" she gasps.

"Are you all right, Elsie?" he says. Her name seems to roll off his tongue so easily.

She hesitates, isn't used to hearing many people say her given name these days. He isn't many, she thinks, and he doesn't even know it, will never know it. She can still feel the sting of the words written on the page that is stuffed into the pocket in the skirt of her dress.

"Yes," she says finally. "I just wanted a bit of fresh air after supper. I hadn't realized it had gotten so late."

He studies her closely, can see faint signs of tear tracks marring the high cheek bone he'd longed to touch, for years now, it seemed. She is not normally one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. Something has upset her and she is hurting inside, he can see. He yearns to know the cause of it, wants to comfort her if is able. He reaches for the handkerchief in his breast pocket, wordlessly offers it to her.

As he hands her the small bit of cloth, she feels the tears well up and threaten to spill over again. She swallows, steels herself.

"I'm sorry, Charles, you'll have to excuse me. I'm much more tired than I thought. I'm going to turn in for the night, I think."

She moves to pass him. For a moment he is stunned. Her words were so flat, devoid of anything. He regains himself, boldly reaches out to grasp her arm gently. She looks up, almost as though she's been burned.

"Please talk to me, Elsie. I can see you're upset."

He's used it a hundred times before, but there was her name again! It feels different this time, the mock concern in his tone. Is trying to make her feel worse? She straightens her shoulders, gazes at him squarely.

"I am, no thanks to you, Charles."

Again, he is stunned. She's never spoken to him this way. Sure, they've had arguments, but never has she spoken to him in a way that made it seem as though it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"I'm not sure I understand. Is this to do with how quiet you've been since we've returned? What have I done that I'm unaware of?"

She feels her temper flare. "Unaware of, Mr. Carson? I can't seriously think yer unaware since yeh wrote the words on that page. I always knew yeh weren't one for jokes most time, but I can assure yeh that this one is no' the least bit amusing!"

Ah, so it's back to formalities. If she wasn't as angry with him as she was at this moment, he would liked to have allowed himself the pleasure of enjoying the way her accent becomes more pronounced when she's angry, the way her r's seem to roll a bit more as her voice rises. He'd often been amused by this lovely sound when he overheard her arguments with Mrs. Patmore over the store cupboard key.

Not now though.

She's thrusting something at him now. In the moonlight, he can see bits and pieces of the words on the page. His eyes widen. How had that piece gotten in with the rest of the letter? He must have inadvertently gathered it along with the other pieces of parchment as he was finishing it.

His gaze finds hers in the shadowy light. He looks at this woman, can see she's torn inside. And all because of him. He is dumbfounded she thinks it's a joke. The words on that page were the most heartfelt he's ever written. He's never had the courage to before.

Finally his mouth catches up with his racing thoughts.

"Elsie, this was a misunderstanding. I wrote those paragraphs, yes, but never meant to send them. I must have accidentally grabbed it along with the other pieces of the letter I'd written to you."

She is not convinced. Crosses her arms in defense.

"Then why write that letter in the first place, if the words aren't true? And why address it me, when it is clearly not meant for me?"

He sighs, looks down and takes a deep breath. Knows he can no longer keep his thoughts to himself. Owes her the truth. He sees her eyes shining up at him, those eyes he knows to be a dark grey-blue color that darkens when she's angry or upset and lightens when she's content. He speaks softly, so softly she almost doesn't hear them at first.

"I've never written anything closer to the truth than the words on that page, Elsie. They were never meant for anyone but you."

She is shocked, can't believe she is hearing him right. She inhales sharply, realizes he's still speaking softly.

"You weren't supposed to know. I couldn't risk everything you've worked for, everything we've both worked for. It wouldn't have been fair to either of us."

She feels fresh tears reach the rims of her eyes. Cannot believe the words he is saying. Tentatively, she reaches out to touch his arm as gently as he touched hers before, finds she can hardly think of what to say.

"Oh, Charles…."

* * *

A few more seasons have come and gone and now the letters they write are much more personal, an exchange of words between lovers, a far cry from the once genial relationship between the butler and the housekeeper. They speak of longing, sometimes desire should they be feeling bold enough. She is normally the one to put forth such words. She's always been the more daring one of the pair of them, when it came down to it. He is too proper, too concerned his letter could be lost in the post. Or worse, opened! No, he is cautious in his choice of words. Endearing, yet forever cautious.

The element of family business is still ever present in their correspondence, but it has since taken the back seat. They focus on the familial goings-on of life downstairs, of the staff's larking about, of the quiet moments in the evenings they should have liked to share with one another, of the dwindling time between to the beginning and end of the Season.

Elsie sighs, replaces the cap on her pen. Holds the stick of wax in the candle flame, lets it drip on the seal. She firmly presses the stamp down on the parchment, effectively sealing in the words. She gets up from her desk, walks through the dark hall to the post box.

She hadn't realized it was so late. She'd best get to bed. It wouldn't due to be groggy-eyed when she saw him tomorrow evening.

She smiles contetedly, switches off the light.

* * *

Carson turns down the bedside lamp, pulls the duvet up to his shoulder. The end of the season is drawing to a close and the family will be returning to Downton in the morning. He cannot say he isn't glad.

It means he gets to see her lovely face, hear her throaty laugh, be the butt of her loving barbs once again.

And he cannot wait for it.


End file.
